


Falling With You

by ceywoozle



Series: The Great Sherlock RP Game [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sleepy Sex, but kinda sweet?, first person POV john, gross sex, it's totally gross, seriously they've been doing this all day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have had a long hard day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling With You

He is laying there, covered in sweat, reeking of sex. Stretched out on his back, his arms stretched above him, his phone clutched in both hands. He is long and white and radiating heat. The laptop is hot against my lap and we are both smirking because of the absurdity of it, the incredible glory of it. This is such a terrible idea. This is so far against the plan that I'm not even sure there's any coming back from it, but it's been burning. For months. For years. I stare at him and I don't know how I lasted as long as I did. Black curls damp and sticky, eyes heavy-lidded, lips curved in a full smile. They're swollen and red. Too red. The entire bottom half of his face is rasped raw from the bristles on my jaw.

Oxydised copper eyes slide to me, knowing I'm watching. There's a message in them, an expectation, and I glance to the computer in my lap, refresh the screen, see it immediately:

 

_Fairly certain I’m going to experience slight…issues with walking tomorrow._

_Mm, then again, that’s all the more reason to lounge about in bed._

 

He's an idiot. Such an idiot to be posting this in public.

Not that we'd been subtle. Not that I'd been capable of being subtle. Not since the night before last. Not since he had fallen, drunk and loose-limbed into my lap and looked at me with pouting lips and absolute disaster written on every inch of his face. I was lost. Too much to drink, not nearly enough common sense. All it had needed was that. That look in his eye. There isn't anything else that could possibly have come out of that night.

Now he's watching me and the disaster is back. There wasn't a thing I could do to stop Sherlock Holmes before. Now...? Now I know better than to even try. I turn back to the computers and type in a response.

 

_Oh were you planning on going somewhere?_

 

I glance over but he's already intent on his phone again, already keying out a response.

This is a terrible idea. This is such a terrible idea. If Mary hadn't know last night she certainly knows now and I wonder, realistically, how long I honestly could have expected to keep this up, to keep this secret? With Sherlock sulking moodily at every turn, every snipe about  _“your wife”_ a fresh grievance, striking accurately enough that only the fact that he himself was fully aware of the injustice of these remarks kept me from shaking him. Oh but it was tempting at times. Most of the time, really.

“John.”

That voice, low and hoarse and lazy, only an hour ago raised in worship of my name. God I love his voice.

“Hm?” I hum, unable to muster the energy, the willpower. I want to stare at him all day. I want to marvel that this is finally mine, but he is scowling at me impatiently and looking pointedly at my computer.

I sigh and tear my eyes away, refresh the screen, read his next reply:

 

_Mm, thought I might pop round to Barts, see if I can get some more eyeballs._

_Am reconsidering._

 

His baiting is adorable. I adore him. I know he is trying to get a rise out of me but nonetheless I snap my reply into my keyboard, two fingers stabbing ruthlessly at the keys.

 

_Reconsider harder._

 

He huffs a laugh and I glare at him out of the corner of my eye, daring him to say something. He does, of course.

 

_Make me._

 

He is grinning. The git.

I don't say anything. Roll my eyes and snap the laptop shut. He is shifting on the bed, almost squirming. I'm incredulous at his stamina but even more so at mine. I feel torn apart. Nothing is working. My joints have slipped from their sockets and the muscles are lax and useless. But there is still nothing in this world that will keep me from touching his man.

He is tapping into his phone again and I can see a frown begin to build. That's his Mycroft face and I dread to know what's being said, why Sherlock even bothers to respond.

The laptop is on the floor and I reach over and pull the phone out of his grasp. He opens his mouth, ready to protest, but my own lips are already there, my teeth grasping his bottom lip and tugging and he moans quietly, there right alongside me, already wanting. He arches upwards and I hear his own teeth snapping and I grin, releasing him, and without a word I offer myself up to him, and it's the right thing to do because he is surging towards me and he's seeking me, swollen lips hot against my own.

We are disgusting, both of us. Sweat and the remaining edges of earlier cum that we missed with our careless swipe of lazy tissues. We are sore and aching, and I can tell by the way Sherlock supports himself half-raised on one elbow that he is exhausted, his lips pressing against mine, hungry and listless at the same time. Wanting and needing as he falls panting onto his side, and I take pity on him and follow him there.

We are sticking to each other, our skin clinging awkwardly and uncomfortably, but neither of us moves apart, arms wrapping awkwardly, legs sliding and stuttering, feet pawing around each other, our mouths seeking, lips pulling and dragging. It is messy and awkward and I wouldn't stop it, not for anything. I cling harder, imagining my atoms parting and sliding in between his. I picture them swirling together and merging and I don't think I can ever be close enough. I don't think there will ever be a time when I don't want to be wrapped up in this man's arms, in his legs, in his every cell and atom. I am sighing into his mouth. Besotted. Needy. I don't even care.  _I don't even care._

I am aching to draw nearer and he is struggling against me, swimming against physics. We are pressing and pushing, every inch of us plastered down the front. I can feel the hardening length of his cock pressing high between my thighs, and it is a perfect place, our relative heights making this almost too easy, too inevitable. His pelvis is rocking, uneven twitches upwards that are almost involuntary. My own reaction just as much so, my legs widening, parting, seeking downwards, my hips tilting inwards, wanting him to find that place, ready for it, oversensitive and still empty even after a long day of nothing but this, nothing but exploration and idolatry in the twisted remains of his bed. I want this. I want this so much. My whole body is pleading and he hears it, understanding it in a way I would never had expected Sherlock to understand, because his hips begin to rock in earnest now and he is panting heavily, and I am whining and there's nothing I can do to stop it because I need this so much, too much. I'm exhausted and I couldn't begin to care less as the first brush of his cock, seeking wildly at my entrance, has me keening for more.

My own cock is hard and leaking between us, seeking friction in the hollow formed by the concavity of our hips. I don't know which sensation I crave more but Sherlock removes all decision from my hands by peeling abruptly away and I find myself being pushed onto my stomach, the momentary brush of cold air a relief and a desperate emptiness. But it doesn't last. I hear him shuffling about, the clatter as the plastic bottle of lube falls over and his curse, the indent of the mattress, the creak of the bed frame, then he is back and the cold is gone, replaced by his hands, his mouth. His body covers me, his front to my back, and I am pressed between him and the mattress and I can feel my hips trying to move on their own, seeking friction, begging for release. I'm so hard and I know it's going to take forever for us to come but it doesn't feel like it right now. Right now all I am aware of is the desperation, the want, filling me and taking over. I am begging him, my voice high and breathless, almost sobbing, but he is kissing my shoulders, my neck, my back, and I feel his lips smiling against my skin as he presses a hand into my lower back and pushes my shuddering hips still.

“Sherlock.”

“Shh,” he says, his voice against my ear. “My turn now.”

There is the snap of the cap on the lube bottle, a pause in which I don't move, I'm frozen with the expectation. Every sense is ready to react, my muscles, exhausted by quivering. I am whimpering with the anticipation and I feel like I should mind this more, as if this should be humiliating in some way, but I can't think clearly enough. My brain is taken up with the air, cold against my sweat slicked skin, with the way my hips are canted upwards and outwards, with the way Sherlock is suddenly there again pushing my legs apart, my knees up so that I am face down on the bed, my arse in the air, and all I can think is  _when when when._

“Sherlock.”

“Shh. I love you, John.”

“Sherlock. I love you.” And at those words, as if he was waiting for them, I feel the press of something hot and slick and hard and I realise all at once that this isn't a finger. It's his cock, pressed against my hole and slowly, in tiny incremental thrusts, he is pushing into me.

I am crying out, I am begging, and I have no idea what I'm saying. It hurts but not enough for me to want him to stop. I want him inside me faster and yet this gradual working is pulling me to pieces. I am incoherent, utterly unable to think, to react. Every action is without the smallest vestige of control and I am vaguely aware of his fingers clenched into my hips, holding me still, the smooth murmur of his voice riding over me and telling me that I'm safe, that I'm his, that he's going to make me come, that he's going to come inside me, spilling into me, filling me, marking me.

I want him inside me and at the same time I am trying to push him away. But he is holding me firmly and slowly, slowly, he is filling me, he is making up the emptiness and replacing it with himself, and I am thinking of atoms and cells swirling together and I cry out his name even as he gives a final push and he is in. He is inside. Sherlock is inside of me and part of me and I don't know what I want, I don't know what I'm capable of. There is nothing but feeling, sensation, and I hardly have time to get used to that before he is moving again, slow and careful at first, thrusting gently, and then when I am begging again, when I am reduced to incoherency, he moves faster, harder, dragging me backwards into every thrust and he's talking again, words running through me and into me, telling me I'm loved, that I'm beautiful, that I will never leave him because he will always need to have me here for this, for filling, for worshipping, for fucking, for begging, and I am begging, I am begging and he is thrusting faster and I can hear myself almost shouting,  _harder harder harder Jesus Christ Sherlock please fuck me harder_ and my orgasm comes on me so suddenly, far sooner than I would have thought possible, that I am shouting and breaking on the waves of my own small death even as I hear Sherlock give a cry and I can feel it, I can feel the pulse as he pumps into me, bending low over my back as he groans out his completion to my spine.

It is too hot to stay as we are and we are too exhausted to move. He rolls off of me after minutes, long after he has grown soft and slipped from inside me, from where I can feel the warmth of his come sliding out of me, growing cold and sticky in the crease of my thighs. He tips himself to the side, giving me room to breath, and the air of the room, as stifling and sex-drenched as it is, feels gloriously cool.

I give a moan, open-mouthed against the mattress, and at my side Sherlock grunts breathlessly, shifting briefly sideways, enough only so that we are touching, the back of my hand against his forearm. And it is enough, this single point of contact. In this moment it is enough.

“We need a bath,” he says, but his syllables are slurred. He sounds drunk and only half-conscious.

I grunt assent because it's true. We do. Sex is disgusting, really. But it will take a miracle to move me right now and cracking my eyes enough to see Sherlock, eyes tightly shut and breath slowly evening, I know he's in the exact same state.

“Bath,” he says again, but far fainter, and I hum agreement once more because there's nothing else to do and this is how you deal with Sherlock. Agree with him and let him figure it out on his own. He doesn't get the chance, of course. He's asleep in that moment, his chest giving one last heave before his head falls to the side and I smile, because this is Sherlock. This is my Sherlock. And I follow him into sleep.

 


End file.
